Fake It til You Make It
by Mindy35
Summary: Jack and Liz attempt to out-couple his ex-wife.


Title: Fake It 'til you Make It

Author: Mindy

For: hamnapkin

Prompt(s): dancing/fake husband

Rating: K

Disclaimer: Not mine, no money made.

Spoilers: Nope

Pairing: Jack/Liz

Summary: Jack and Liz vs. Bianca and spouse.

A/N: For more Jack/Liz fic by me, please find me as mindymakru at Livejournal.

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She asked for it. She did. So she really only had herself to blame when she got it. Actually, that's not true at all. She could blame Jack for bringing her in the first place. Or his ex-wife and her new husband. Vincent Foley - who apparently always got referred to by his full name. Without their presence Liz would not be posing as the new Mrs Donaghy. Or Mrs Lemon-Donaghy as she'd corrected her fake husband when they encountered the newlywed Foleys. Vincent Foley was not the only one who could be all picky about names.

Liz assumed that if Jack had known his ex-wife was going to be at the gala he'd have brought someone more impressive than her. Especially since she couldn't help cowering behind him and holding onto her dress when in Bianca's presence. That woman still scared the living crap out of her and rightly so. Anyone who married Jack had to be a bit screwy in the head. She only fake married him – in a romantic ceremony in Paris, according to him – so…she wasn't sure what that meant about her sanity, or lack of. In any case, after they moved off to their separate tables – everyone behaving exquisitely, of course – Jack informed her that he'd had an inkling Bianca might attend that night and was in fact pleased that she was his date. Not just because it gave plausibility and continuity to their earlier lie about their involvement. But because she had a unique talent for rubbing his first wife the wrong way. None of his other ladies managed to do that as well as she did. So that was nice. Or she decided to take it as a nice thing. It made Jack happy that she annoyed someone so intensely. And she had come to the gala with him to make him happy. So she was off to a good start.

In fact, Jack made a big show of being _really_ happy _all _night. Liz knew the difference between regular old, totally at ease Jack and the more obnoxious, out to impress version. Somehow she got the feeling that whatever they were doing, whoever they were talking to, even when they were _eating_ for nuts sake, he knew exactly where Bianca was in relation to them. He kept her in the corner of his eye the whole time. And vice versa, she suspected. Because the Foleys seemed to be putting on a neat little show of their own. Liz was sure nobody was actually as happy together as they looked. Dancing and kissing and laughing all over the joint. That had to be an act, right? Either that, or they were drunk. Truthfully, Vincent – _Vincent Foley_ – had looked pretty hammered on arrival, and he only got more hammered-looking. Meanwhile, Bianca never stopped glowing - either with nuptial bliss or vengeful expectation.

Of course, being only a fake couple and not a real one, there was no way she and Jack could hold their own in the 'look-how-happy-we-are-together' contest that was silently raging. They weren't the only people playing that game either, not as far as Liz could tell. The whole night seemed to be an elaborate excuse for rich people to engage in a glitzy game of oneupsmanship. Which was never a game she was awesome at. She just couldn't project that kind of effortless happiness. Possibly because she'd never experienced it. Certain things made her happy, of course. A good sandwich being top of her list. People tripping over or running for the bus and missing it. Wigs being blown off bald heads. Finding more than one prize in her cereal box. Warming her jeans in the oven. A really tough yoga class.

Okay, the last one was a lie, but the other ones were true. But happiness was something that came and went for her, it turned on and off like a faucet. It wasn't something she radiated naturally. Jack tried his best to make up for her shortcomings in this department. He insisted on maintaining the pretence, despite their disadvantage, all the while getting slightly hammered himself. But after a good few hours, his attempts to play the happy husband and wife really began to bug her. Like the way he gazed at her all adoringly. And laughed hysterically when she asked him to pass the salt. And him warning her every time he was about to touch her.

"I'm going to touch you now, Lemon, so don't jump, okay?"

That was what he said the first time. Before he slid a hand around her waist. Which was fine. And sure, maybe she appreciated the warning that first time. Because she might've jumped or swatted him away or done something weird that blew their cover. As it was, she let Jack touch her. His hand found a nice, safe spot and he proceeded to guide her about the room with it. When it moved up her back, she was fine with that too. Also fine was his hand touching her bare shoulder, and then her arm. Even her hair. The hair on her head, not the hair on her arm. Which…not relevant. It was not the touching Liz minded so much. She found that easy to deal with. Mostly. It was the constant warnings, each and every time. Jack leaning into her, his voice all solicitous and conspiratorial.

"I'm just about to touch your shoulder, alright Lemon?"

"Sure. Go ahead. Touch away."

Then later:

"Remain calm, Lemon. My hand is going to move down your arm now to your elbow."

"I am calm. I'm totally calm. Are you calm, Jack?"

Later still:

"I'm placing my hand on your back again. Is it alright there?"

"Little higher, buddy. Theeere we go, and now we're good."

And finally, whilst gazing at her a bit too adoringly:

"You know that roquette brings out the natural lowlights in your hair."

"Augh, get it out…!"

"Hold still-"

Liz stopped shaking her head and let Jack rid her hair of the leftover lettuce. Then he tucked the curl it had been lodged in behind her ear. "Liz, I-"

And that was when she sort of exploded. She'd had just about enough. Enough of the touching, enough of the whispering. So she asked for it. She asked for trouble when she told Jack crossly: "Dude! Enough with the running commentary. You can touch wherever, okay? I get the deal, just keep it clean and we're cool."

Jack looked taken aback but nodded. Then he held out a hand and asked her to join him in a dance.

The only reason Liz accepted was because a fast song was starting. And the dance floor was well populated. And she felt bad for snapping at him. Also, she guessed it was one way she could help him in his fool-Bianca-into-believing-I'm happier-than-her scheme without it costing her much. He seemed pretty intent on touching her all over the place anyway - and she'd just given him permission to - so really they'd just be adding music to the equation. And she liked music. Some music. Not the music that had been playing all night, but it might improve. What Liz hadn't factored into the equation was that Jack might want to dance more than one dance with her. They bopped along to the first song amicably enough. She didn't have to pretend to be having fun because she was. And not just because of Jack's prehistoric dance moves and dopey-ass grin. He didn't seem to be pretending to have fun either. For the first time all night, she felt like he'd lost sight of his ex-wife and their mutual ruse.

When the song ended, Liz turned to retreat to their table, but Jack captured her wrist and made her stay for another dance. Then another. Then another. And then another. Each one got progressively slower, the lyrics cornier. The floor gradually emptied until they were one of only four couples. The lights dimmed to an atmospheric blue. Jack's hands settled on the dip of her back. Hers lay on his shoulders, her chin sometimes having a rest on his bicep. It was not uncomfortable. Not as uncomfortable as she thought it might be to slow dance with Jack. It actually felt nice, at least to her. She may even have been relaxed. Or drunk. Or both, just a little bit. She hadn't danced with a man in so long. And she'd never danced with a man as big as Jack. It…wasn't bad. She liked how he didn't tug her around or urge her closer than she wanted to be. He didn't smother her, didn't try anything funny. There was no obscene body contact, no pressure and no weirdness. All of which were not her deal when on the dance floor. Or when pretending to be someone's spouse. And she was trying to pull off both, without embarrassing herself or her partner.

Every so often as they danced, she'd feel just the brush of his knee against her leg. Or his chest would come into contact with hers as he took a deep breath. Or he would mumble something weird and nostalgic about the song in her ear while his fingers flexed against the material of her gown then shifted, finding a new place to latch onto. She was aware of all these little nuances as they danced, all the tiny zings she was receiving from his proximity. And yet…she was not, at the same time. That awareness and non-awareness was not anything she'd experienced before. The combination of the surreptitious zings and the familiar comfort was…oddly appealing. It must mean she liked dancing with Jack. But she only realized it when the song wound down and Jack pulled away from her. He beckoned a waiter over to them, picked up a flute of champagne and downed the bubbly in one go. The waiter scuttled off before she could grab herself a glass and do the same. So Liz just stood there, wondering if that was his cue to say their time on the dance floor was now done.

But Jack faced her suddenly, a question in his eyes. "Lemon, I-"

"What did I say, Jack?" she cut him off sharply. "No more warnings! Just…whatever…okay? Permission granted. So- are we dancing or what?"

She moved back into his body, held her arms up in mid-air. Jack moved closer. She felt relief as one hand landed on her hip, then surprise as the other grazed her chin. He nudged it upwards, leaned in closer and kissed her lightly. So lightly, so softly. His lips just seemed to know what to do, where to press against hers, how to create the most incredible effect by doing so very little. She leant into the kiss, eyes fluttering belatedly closed, but then it went away, way too fast.

"I was only going to say," she heard him murmur, an amused lilt in his voice, "…'I'd like to kiss you now, Lemon'. I thought perhaps you'd like that heads-up."

Liz opened her eyes, blinked at him, momentarily lost for words. But she had to ask, with a wary glance to one side, "Was that…for Bianca's benefit?"

Jack didn't take his eyes off her. "Just mine." His lips formed a small smile. "Well…I was hoping you'd enjoy it too."

"No, I did," she jumped in, a little too eagerly, a little too awkwardly. "It was good. I mean, it was fine. I mean, you could…maybe- do it again. You know, if you…wanted?"

Jack drew in a breath, nodded gravely. "I believe I do."

And he did. And she did back. And she enjoyed it. A lot.

So in the end, she didn't really know whose fault it was that that's how their night went. That it began as one giant fake-out. But she ended up making out with Jack in the middle of a rich person dance floor with 80's pop belting on in the background. Maybe it was thanks to Bianca's presence. And Vincent Foley's. Maybe the whole evening was Jack's fault. Maybe all of them were partially to blame for the outcome. Liz didn't think she'd mind taking her part of the blame though. Because she did ask for it, in a way. She can't deny it. She gave Jack the green light.

And she was really, really happy that she did.

_END._


End file.
